See that? You just advanced somebody's knowledge in a way that doesn't shame them, and also got drilled atop a steaming mash of chickpeas and tahini. That is the very dictionary definition of "victory."
Enforcing Pretty Much Any Dining Etiquette
If you're out for a fancy dinner at some esteemed establishment with vaguely racist undertones, by all means, practice your finest restaurant etiquette. But if you ever catch yourself telling somebody to keep their elbows off the table at a White Castle, kindly shut all of your fucks in the upright position. Listen, I have worked in the restaurant industry -- mostly at those aforementioned fancy private dining establishments old enough to have been, at some point, a fully functional plantation -- and I can promise you one thing: There has been a dick gently laid on every inch of table space you're using. This goes doubly true at places like White Castle. I don't mean it's more likely at a fast food joint; I mean literally there have been two cocks resting, one atop the other, in a Frankfurt Dogpile, exactly where you just set down your Sierra Mist. I promise you, wherever you choose to place your elbows, be they resting on the lip of a plastic table or softly brushing against the dignified surface of a 19th century leather dining chair, you are putting your eatin' parts where minimum wage employees have drunkenly fucked away their customer service rage.
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"I say, does this pinot gris stink of sex and fury to you, Madison?"
Next time you're about to correct somebody on which type of fork is appropriate for a cool summer salad versus a more hefty autumnal fare, stop and remind yourself that it has absolutely been up some cook's ass before. I have known many, many chefs in my lifetime. They are awful, crass, wonderful human beings. If the sous chef hasn't shoved that soup spoon in his rectum for a drunken laugh, then the head chef has shanked your entree fork into the butt-meat of some idiot prep cook for daring to ask what the difference between buttermilk and heavy cream is. Eating is not, by its very nature, a dignified affair. You're shoveling flesh and dirt-fruit into a hole filled with spit so you don't die. You can cram food into your mouth with two fists and some determination and achieve the exact same results. Let's not suddenly pretend like we're the dowagers of Downton Abbey at dinnertime: Elbows go on the table because they are the fulcrums of the food-levers that are our forearms, and if you can get steak in your face with a shrimp fork, you go for it.
It's just less surface area exposed to chef-butt that'll be gracing your mouth.
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